Praying for Mercy
by Kimberley Jayne
Summary: The pair had been through thick and thin together, however one night it all had to end. July 07 Rumble. One-Shot.


**Disclaimer**: I own none of the amazing characters you recognize from the book The Outsiders, they belong solely to the author S. E. Hinton (their creator).

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**Thursday, 8th November, 1978.**

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There was something about a rainy night that brought it all back and I wasn't sure I was ready to remember. The small pitter-patter against my window sent tremors down my spine and a feeling of alertness replaced that of tiresome.

Denise stirred. "Steve?" she murmured tiredly.

I kissed her temple softly and told her to go back to sleep. I rose from the bed and plodded bare foot out of our bedroom and through the darkness of the house to the back door. Outside the early October rain came down softly making small trickling sounds as it ran down the porch top and onto the steps underneath.

The scene was very different from the one I held in my head. Here the rain pattered down quickly, almost invisible to the naked eye in my head however it was being thrown down on us, gallons of the stuff mixed in with mud, sweat, and blood.

I could feel the slick mud under my feet where so many wounded men lay down to die. I could smell the all to familiar odour of sweat as they roll around in their own blood unable to do anything but pray for the pain to be over.

It were the sounds that rung clear through my mind after all these years they were the things that'd been imprinted into my unconscious. The deafening noise of gunfire being un-leashed followed by the thump of falling bodies hit the ground. The bosses cries for us boys to get moving telling us to keep our heads down and firearms at the ready.

I'll never forget the way his face twisted from the terror and excruciating pain he was in, honestly I couldn't tell you which he was more scared of: dying, or being kept in that much agony, but he was scared.

I ignored the yells to keep pushing forward and instead fell back to his aid. After being prepped and trained for war you'd think a bullet wound wouldn't bring tears to my eyes but as the blood pumped out of his chest and his face paled the tears leaked from my eyes and down my blood spotted cheeks.

"Steve," he spluttered, focusing on my face.

I didn't speak back to him the large lump in my throat wouldn't let me. I cradled his head in my arms and looked around frantically for help, for anyone that would stop and give a crap to what was happening to my buddy.

"Steve," he repeated. "Move."

Idiot couldn't have thought that I would ever just leave him to die. I pressed my hands down harder against the wound to try and slow down the flow of blood but it didn't seem to be working.

"You need to move," he said.

I shook my head. "No," I whispered.

He pushed my chest with what little strength he had in an effort to make me move, make me leave him there. He'd given up already; I could tell with the way his eyes glistened he was ready to meet with death halfway.

"Don't you leave me," I demanded, shaking him slightly as his eyes dropped.

He couldn't give up and he couldn't leave me. We were in this together. I remembered sitting on my front steps a smoke between my lips when he'd come up the path a strange look on his face it was anger mixed with sadness and tiredness, it were a look I'd only seen him make when Sandy had left.

He'd asked for a smoke and that was when I confirmed my fears of something real bad going off with him, he'd shown me that letter and by the end of the day I had enlisted myself into the army.

"Come on buddy, you're gonna be alright," I promised. You have to be.

He didn't give me any kind of response; instead he licked his lips fighting to say the words that were running through his head, the words he didn't have the strength to say out loud.

"Please," I begged as his eyelids dropped again. "Don't go."

A faint smile crossed his lips whilst his shoulders slunk further into my body as I held his dieing frame, the color from his face had gone and even though I didn't want to admit it to myself I knew it was too late.

The blood didn't pump out of his chest anymore instead it made a pool around us both as we waited, as I prayed for mercy, for help.

"It's alright buddy," he whispered softly. "It'll be alright."

I sucked in a deep breath and pulled him tighter against me, refusing to let go. I don't know how long I stayed like that both, it was long after he was dead I finally move, until help finally came and those who were wounded were aided. They didn't help my friend; they said it was too late, too late to help.

His funeral had been the same – rain. It came down in sheets masking the wet tears that fell down so many faces but couldn't hide the redness each set of eyes held.

I didn't watch as they lowered his coffin into the ground, didn't listen as the priest muttered from the bible and people said their goodbyes.

I would never say goodbye, even now fifteen years later as I stand out in the pouring rain with my wife sleeping soundly upstairs and children tucked up safely in their beds I would never say goodbye instead each night I pray for my fallen friend who'd never live the full life he deserved.

It was on nights like this when the rain beat down and the painful screams filled my head I remember that life has no mercy for people like Sodapop Curtis and maybe even god himself held no mercy for a man from our side of town. Instead of expecting mercy I pray.

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**Kimberley Jayne**


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